adapting Christmas traditions

The cookies with the red centers are known in our family as thumbprint cookies. In my family of origin, my mother used to bake a similar cookie but the jam was between dough on top and bottom instead of open. I’m not sure if my mother picked the recipe from a cook book or learned it from her mother. Anyhow, the Better Half [BH] and the Daughter Person [DP] have been baking Christmas cookies as long as I can remember. This year though there’s a new wrinkle in an old tradition.

a plateful of Christmas thumbprint cookies

Photo by J. Harrington

Our one+ year old granddaughter has an allergy to eggs. Our traditional recipe for thumbprint cookie dough includes eggs, or at least an egg. Yesterday the DP asked the BH to try a recipe for thumbprint cookies without eggs in the dough. Someone then needed to serve as a taste tester and I bravely volunteered, after all, grandfathers need to be prepared to make sacrifices for their grandchildren, especially at Christmas time.

The first batch of cookies came out of the oven; was allowed to cool for a few minutes; and then a sample was thrust into my hands accompanied by the command “Taste!” After ascertaining that the jam filling the thumbprint wouldn’t singe my tongue, I bravely followed orders. The sample lacked a certain necessary crunch (underbaked slightly) and didn’t taste quite the same as the original, but was within acceptable parameters. A second sample, in the oven for slightly longer than the first, was an improvement. All that remains is to see whether and how much the granddaughter likes them. I’m guessing they’ll do just fine.

Eating the Cookies

Jane Kenyon - 1947-1995

The cousin from Maine, knowing
about her diverticulitis, let out the nuts,
so the cookies weren’t entirely to my taste,
but they were good enough; yes, good enough.

Each time I emptied a drawer or shelf
I permitted myself to eat one.
I cleared the closet of silk caftans
that slipped easily from clattering hangers,
and from the bureau I took her nightgowns
and sweaters, financial documents
neatly cinctured in long gray envelopes,
and the hairnets and peppermints she’d tucked among
Lucite frames abounding with great-grandchildren,
solemn in their Christmas finery.

Finally the drawers were empty,
the bags full, and the largest cookie,
which I had saved for last, lay
solitary in the tin with a nimbus
of crumbs around it. There would be no more
parcels from Portland. I took it up
and sniffed it, and before eating it,
pressed it against my forehead, because
it seemed like the next thing to do.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.